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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23266078">Nesting</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/givesmevoice/pseuds/givesmevoice'>givesmevoice</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sex Education (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Domestic Fluff, F/M, short and sweet</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 06:55:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>336</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23266078</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/givesmevoice/pseuds/givesmevoice</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>This Mother's Day feels very new.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jean Milburn/Jakob Nyman</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>45</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Nesting</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Since today is Mother's Day in the UK, I wanted to write a little fluff for Jean and Jakob's first Mother's Day together. I wasn't ready to name this baby yet.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>This was new. The man, tousled and tattooed, carrying their baby, plump and pink-cheeked. Singing softly a song she knew in words she couldn’t quite fit in her mouth. The pancakes, sliced strawberries and good cream, skimmed off the top of a bottle of fresh milk. Their bed making room for two and a half bodies for a sweet breakfast, a soft kiss amongst their nest of blankets. A whisper of “It’s Mother’s Day, lilla björnen. Can you tell Mama that you love her?” The brush of his scruff against her cheek as he murmurs “Vi älskar dig,” in her ear before gently taking the lobe between his teeth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But this is old, almost ancient. The way she fits against him, how he makes room for her against his heart, beating steadily in his chest. The baby passed into her arms, how he blinks his blue eyes expectantly, knowing that his own breakfast is on the way. The bubbling she feels inside her as she brings him to her, the warmth she cannot suppress as strong arms, clad in an all-too-familiar yellow robe, wrap around her. “He barely let Mama finish her own breakfast before demanding his…” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The laughter is new. This light-hearted feeling, of knowing that they were able to gather together these pieces and make a new life. That </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>had been able to gather together these pieces and make a new life. How could it be that her most basic need as a person, to be provided and cared for, feels revolutionary? That getting praise for doing among the most natural things as a mother is foreign to her? She leans her head back against his shoulder, closing her eyes contentedly as she lets this feeling wash over her, sink into her bones. They won’t have quiet for much longer, and she wants to keep this stolen moment as long as she can. “Thank you, Jakob.” He sighs, nuzzling his nose into the soft honey of her hair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Happy Mother’s Day, sweet Jean.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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